


The Morbid Shepherd

by SeeTheGuyPerson



Series: Haradron [1]
Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeTheGuyPerson/pseuds/SeeTheGuyPerson
Summary: An undead wanders the wastes before stumbling across something truly powerful, uncovering long lost memories of worlds beyond his own.
Series: Haradron [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016230
Kudos: 2





	The Morbid Shepherd

On the plane of Haradron, in the dark swampy lands of Nekson, the dead are left to own devices, cursed to forever wander until they either disintegrate from exposure or are killed by one of the many creatures that dwell in the marshlands. On the continent of Nekson, the dead were, are, and forever will be restless. All graves are shallow, few are undisturbed, and fewer still have an occupant at all. Whenever a living being dies in the Dead Lands, they invariably get to their feet and begin their endless march towards oblivion.

One such pitiful creature trudges along what was once a thriving trade road, its decayed lags gouging trenches in the fresh snow. It knows not its destination, nor why it means to go there, just that the only thing it can do is walk in search of flesh and therefore it shall be forever what it does. It seldom travels alone, as these lands play host to legions uncounted of zombies, skeletons, and ghouls. At no point could this one recall a point when it could not see at least a handful of its kind in the gloomy fog and snow. It payed them no mind, as it barely had one to begin with. It continued its eternal walk, unburdened by thought or awareness.

It barely even registered when its foot became caught on something in the snow.

It stopped. for the first time since rising, it halted its walk. Something about what it felt through its leg. Felt? It could... feel something? How could it feel anything through long decayed and rotted nerves and muscles? What's more, why was it even thinking these thoughts? How?

It was then it realized it was still touching the thing that caught its foot. It bent over to dig through the snow to see it. To sate a curiosity. To endeavor for something. Emotions and thoughts it hadn't felt in... it didn't even know how long. It knelt down to begin digging, in the process pulling its foot free.

The creature stalled. It wasn't walking anymore. It was digging. That meant food. It continued digging, not entirely understanding or caring why. It pulled away the last handful of powdery snowfall. It wasn't food.

The object was strange and beautiful in equal measure. Master crafted golden filigree wrapped around large glass globes as delicate fingers holding a birds egg. Its glass surfaces enclosed swirling and dancing arcs of glowing blue dust. Each grain sparkled like a star, each spec both the sun and the moon, each stroke of colour more beautiful than any night sky. It knew now why it was digging. He wanted to see it. He picked up the device and stood up again. When his hands touched what he now recognized as an hourglass, his mind flooded with images.

He was taken back through his memories. A world of gods in the aether and people in the polis. A world of conquistadors and pirates. A world of one enormous city governed by guilds. He felt something in himself he thought long ago extinguished. A spark in his chest. His spark. His vision came back to the present and he stared deep into the hourglass. He dared not let it go for fear his memories would go with it.

The snowy marsh road around him took on a new type of silence. Not one of loneliness, but instead one of anticipation. As if it waited. He still didn't continue his walk. He looked around him, peering into the grey blue shroud of the midwinter snowfall. Eyes began to stare back. First only a few, then more, and then dozens. Corpses like himself. Zombies, skeletons, and ghouls all turning their own endless march in his direction. Some dislodged themselves from the frozen mud still clutching the pitted and rusted swords and spears they fell with. Some walked out of the gloomy woods in tattered clothes and caked in muck. Some still dug their way out of the snow clad in torn leather armour or in pockmarked iron plate. They all walked toward him. He now stood at the center of a full gathering of the dead. All standing. Waiting. He found the strength to lift the large hourglass above his head.

Although his neck had been torn and shredded by the elements and time, he still managed to speak even just some sound.

" _...Graaaaaaal..._ "

Something in his mind told him that it was once his name, but he was certain it wasn't pronounced correctly. Graal waited for a response. A moment passed and he became unsure if they understood him. Then, one by one, they began to raise their weapons aloft. Rent swords, splintered spears, and tattered banners from armies and battles long since fought and lost were raised high towards Graal. They all shouted in each of their own throaty, hissing, husks of voices.

"GRAAAAAAAAL!"

Graal knew through the hourglass. These were his people now. They, like him, were trapped in their rotting shells of bodies and looked to him for guidance. They saw him as their shepherd, and they were his flock.

**Author's Note:**

> First in what will be a series I am writing with friends. Their own planeswalker stories will be posted at some point.


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